


A Sussex Carol

by DonnesCafe



Series: Christmas Visitations with Wedding Interludes [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bees, Brotherhood, Christmas, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Holidays, M/M, maybe beginnings of romance, post-HLV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-03-29
Packaged: 2018-01-17 09:40:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1382737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DonnesCafe/pseuds/DonnesCafe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock visits Sussex, apologizes to Janine, goes to church, and visits the bees. The holidays can be exhausting....</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sussex Carol

_Then sin depart behould here's grace_  
 _And death here's life come in they place_  
 _Hell now thou mayst they terror see_  
 _Thy power great must Conquer'd be_  
 _And for thy darkness we have light_  
 _Which makes the Angels sing this night…_  


_The Sussex Carol_  


~~Attributed to Luke Waddinge, Bishop of Ferns, Ireland. _A Smale Garland of Pious and Godly Songs_ (Ghent, 1684) 

~~~~~ 

CAN WE TALK? SH 

_Who’s we? J_

HOW MANY SH’S DO YOU KNOW?? SHERLOCK. 

_And you got my # from? J_

MYCROFT. OF COURSE. SH 

_And I wd want to talk to you because? J_

U SAID WE CD HAVE BEEN FRIENDS? SH 

_Note the past tense. J_

NOTED.SH 

Janine smiled. She was inclined to explore the possibility of seeing Sherlock again. But she, by all that was holy, didn’t intend to make it easy. At the moment, she liked Mycroft more than she liked Sherlock. She and Myc had had a lovely visit in London. He knew how to show a girl a good time. Unlike his sodding brother. But she wasn’t above exploring the possibilities of getting another free holiday in the city. Her little Sussex village was like a picture postcard for Christmas, but it might be lonely. She was gradually making friends, but none close enough to share Christmas with. Bright lights, champagne, and family drama didn’t sound bad. Besides, if you were on Mycroft’s side in anything, you were bound to have the upper hand. 

_Well, have a Merry Christmas. Eff off. J_

JANINE? SH 

_Yes, you chancer? J_

I AM SORRY FOR WHAT I DID. MAYBE WE COULD STILL BE FRIENDS AFTER ALL? 

Janine looked down at her phone. OK, here it got real. Did she think they could be friends, at least that? She still had feelings for him. He was one messed up boyo, that’s for sure. But she couldn’t help loving him, even if she didn’t like him much at the moment. Underneath all the shite, she saw a beautiful, passionate boy who had never really grown up. During her day in London with Myc, he had told her something about their childhoods. Mycroft really was charming as be-damned when he took the trouble. He had wined her and dined her. Then he had taken her somewhere intimate for an after dinner drink. And he had really talked to her about why Sherlock was the way he was. 

Come to think of it, he had sort of courted her on his brother’s behalf. My goodness, she thought, Inspector L was quite the lucky fella. She could just imagine what the full court press would be like if Myc were really giving it his all. They’d both gotten a bit twisted that night, truth be told. Underneath all the intelligence and charm and suavity was a real man in a complicated situation. A man who loved his brother. They were both fairly messed up, sure and certain. Good luck to Inspector Lestrade, she thought. And good luck to me. Her fingers hovered over the phone. 

I UNDERSTAND. HAVE A HAPPY CHRISTMAS. SH 

_Wait. I’m thinking. J_

CAN I COME AND TALK TO YOU? PLEASE? SH 

_Here? Ditchling? You know where I live?? J_

OF COURSE. MYCROFT. CAN I COME? NO MATTER WHAT YOU DECIDE, I WANT TO TALK. NOT FAIR LAST TIME. TOO MUCH MORPHINE. SH 

_I’m thinking. J_

PEACE ON EARTH. GOODWILL TOWARD IDIOTS. THAT WOULD BE ME. BESIDES, I WANT TO SEE THE HIVES. SH 

_Told you was getting rid of hives. I remember. J_

BUT YOU DIDN’T. BECAUSE YOU’RE KIND. SH 

Damn the man. She felt a slight prickle of incipient tears. Was this going to be worth it? 

JANINE? WE NEED TO LOOK AT HIVES. THEY MAY NEED CARE IN WINTER. SH 

_I may regret this. J_

I HOPE NOT. THURSDAY? COTTAGE? THANK YOU. SH 

_Meet me at the White Horse in the village at 6:00._

OK. STILL WANT TO SEE HIVES. SH 

_We’ll see. J_

THANK YOU. SH 

~~~~~ 

He had gotten there half an hour early, procured a double Jamesons, and staked out a seat by a front window at the White Horse. It was a beautiful old pub, white-painted brick with a red roof. He had been nervous all day, thinking about what he could possibly say to Janine. Thinking about how much it mattered to him that they not leave it where it was. Her regretful look as she had left his hospital room had moved him. He had hurt her. The human error hadn’t been just hers. 

The real error had been his. He had operated the way he always had. Everything for the work. But he had failed to taken into account that he wasn’t the same man he had been before…. Before many things. He had almost died. Well, he actually had died once and almost died again from internal bleeding and yet again during the pseudo-Moriarty case. And he had killed. And even before that, he had come back to England after two years away thinking he could simply pick up the life that he had left. 

That hadn’t proven to be the case. He hadn’t been able to keep his feelings for the people he cared about bricked-up behind the walls he had carefully constructed his whole life. His love for John had broken down the walls, had shown him the rewards and perils of caring. Mycroft had always told him that caring wasn’t an advantage. To give him credit, he had been proved right in one sense. Caring hurt. Caring had almost ended his life in more ways than one. But isolation now hurt even more. He couldn’t, wouldn’t go back. 

He had lied to himself about Janine. He had liked her when he met her at John’s wedding. She was attractive and funny and pragmatic. Even in the midst of the multiply-layered challenges and emotions of John’s wedding, she had intrigued him. When they practiced dancing together, he had been taken aback by how easily she fit into his arms, how easy their interactions had been. He rarely felt comfortable with anyone except the select few he had let under his guard. But he had looked forward to dancing with her, and had been absurdly disappointed when she had found someone else. When he had found someone else for her. Damn. 

He took a bracing drink of the whiskey as he remember how hurt he had felt as he looked around the dance floor and realized that he was alone. Why should it have bothered him? He was, usually and essentially, alone. He had been seduced during the wedding planning with the illusion that he was part of something, but he was who he was. 

Then, Magnussen. Magnussen was dangerous and vile, and he had no compunction in exploiting Janine in plotting Magnussen’s downfall. He remembered when he had taken a volume of Jeremy Bentham off his mother’s bookshelves and read it. He must have been nine or ten. “…. It is the greatest happiness of the greatest number that is the measure of right and wrong.” That was a calculation he could understand, then and now. Janine was beautiful, smart, practical, and strong. He wasn’t the sort of person to inspire deep love in another. Even if she cared about him a little, she would get over it quickly. Magnussen had to be stopped, and not to have exploited his connection to Janine would have been irresponsible. That had been his calculation. 

He had found pretending to be in love with her strangely compelling. He liked kissing her, liked having her make coffee, liked the easy banter, liked being teased. It had also terrified him. He had been relieved when he was found out and the charade ended. When she cashed in and disappeared from his life. He had certainly been relieved. 

When threw himself from the ledge at St. Bart’s, his life changed irrevocably. It had just taken him a long time to realize it. When he stood on Magnussen’s terrace and watched him taunt and torture John, it had changed again. When the dragon bragged about blackmailing and tormenting Janine, something deep inside him twisted. He had trouble analyzing it even now. Sherlock had used Janine for what he thought was the greater good. He used her. The image of Magnussen hurting her and using her made him realize how flawed was his own moral calculus. Yes, he killed Magnussen for John and for Mary. But also for Janine. Somehow she had become one of the very few people in the world he cared about. He wasn’t sure exactly how it had happened. 

The door opened and a swirl of cold air made him lift his head from the whiskey he had been contemplating. 

“It’s fierce cold out there,” she said, swooping in. She put her (cold) hands on both his cheeks. “See? And you all cozy and warm in here. It’s a brilliant pub, innit?” He drew back and surveyed her. Snowflakes in her dark hair, red cheeks, brilliant smile, might have put on a half-stone or so or that might just be the vivid purple coat she wore. 

“Deducing me?” Her smile got even broader. “And what do you see?” 

He stood and pulled out the chair to the high-top for her. “Just that Sussex suits you. And that you met me on your way to choir practice.” 

She narrowed her eyes. Then she looks down to her tote bag and saw that the _Oxford Book of Carols_ was visible. “And did you deduce that I’m perishing? Get me a half of the Black Stuff and some bread and cheese.” 

He did as he was bid. She looked at him from the back as he went to the bar. Took in the long dark curls and the tall, slim form swathed in that coat he loved. He might be a git, but he was a fine thing as well, he was. She might give him a chance to explain himself. 

He came back with the Guinness, some bread and cheese, and some chips with blue cheese sprinkled over them. 

“Thought we might need more to eat before choir practice.” 

“We?” 

“Can’t I come with you and listen? See you in your native habitat?” 

She snorted. “Saints preserve us, you in church? When was the last time you were in a church?” 

“John’s wedding,” he said mildly. “You were there. Remember?” 

“All too well. And before that?” 

He actually smiled. “Confirmation?” 

“I thought so. And I’m surprised that you stood for that.” 

“Mycroft talked me in to it to please the parents. Mycroft is, I regret to say, always talking me into things.” 

“Like coming to see me?” 

“Ah.” He popped a chip into his mouth to buy time. 

She sipped her Guinness demurely. 

“So am I to infer that you and Mycroft have talked?” 

“You might do.” 

“Damn him,” said Sherlock. “Of all the interfering…” 

“I like your brother, Sherl. I know you’re always fighting, but it might be time for you both to quit acting like fools.” 

He opened his mouth to protest, but she held up her hand. “Shhh. Shut it. I’m talking.” He shut it. 

“I like Myc. We had a long talk. Why don’t we just cut the shite.” 

Sherlock took a fortifying drink of Jamesons and nodded, fascinated. He really did like Janine. She was.... astringent. In a good way. 

“In spite of everything you did, I think we could maybe become friends. I’d like to try if you think you can stop acting like an idiot. That would include being nicer to your brother." 

"But he's...," 

"Shhh. Still talking. Myc loves you and deserves better from you. Do you want to apologize to me now or after choir practice?” 

Sherlock hesitated until he was sure she was finished. “Um… now? Alright?” 

She nodded, put a piece of Wensleydale on soda bread, and took a bite. She gestured at him to go on. 

“Janine, I’m so sorry I hurt you. What I did was wrong and cruel and thoughtless. I get caught up in things. I have always found it hard to remember....to calculate what people might feel and I was really worried about Magnussen and I didn’t think you would really care about me that much anyway or that anyone could really because I'm an arsehole usually anyway and….” 

She waved him down. “Breathe, Sherl.” 

He nodded and took a deep breath. “I’m trying to change. I don’t particularly like what I’ve let myself become. I’d like us to be friends. Do you think we can? If I try not to be such an arsehole again?” 

“Maybe. But you really hurt me, Sherlock.” 

He nodded. “ I know,” he said softly into his Jamesons. He couldn't quite look at her. He was so tired of hurting other people. Tired of being hurt. Tired of being alone. 

“I’m not going to this Christmas thing as your date. But I’ll go as your friend.” 

“So Mycroft told you about that?” 

“Mycroft told me about a lot of things.” Sherlock didn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified. 

~~~~~ 

They walked through picture-perfect Ditchling. Snow drifted down on the grey cobbled streets lined with thatched cottages and little shops. The street lamps were festooned in red ribbons. Janine put her arm comfortably through his. It felt… easy and natural. Walking through twilight streets in a peaceful village on the way to church with a beautiful woman on his arm. No, this wasn’t natural to him in any way. Sherlock felt that he had been dropped into another world. 

They walked to the edge of the village proper. On a gentle green hill, behind a stone wall, was what looked to be a very, very old church. The Church of St. Margaret of Antioch said the sign. 

“How old is this place? Looks Norman.” 

“Even older. Well, they tell me that this building’s 12th century, but it was built on top of a Saxon church. That church was recorded in the Domesday Book.” 

He pulled the great oak door open for her. Stone floor, carved oak screens, ancient stained glass, white plastered walls reached up to a beautiful arched wooded ceiling. 

He felt suddenly awkward. Not his milieu. And there were…. people. He couldn’t image what those introductions would be like. “This is Sherlock. He’s my….” What? “I’ll sit back here and think more thoughts of repentance. You go....” He gestured vaguely toward the people gathering at the front. 

“Won’t hurt you to repent some more, I guess.” She patted his arm with a strangely comforting gesture and went to take her seat with the choir. 

Music was soon washing over him, chants, carols, organ, blended voices. It soothed him. Janine had soothed him. She really was kind. Something unknotted deep inside him. He had lived his life at a fever-pitch for the last several years, and he realized how deeply tired he was. His life was shifting underneath the surface, and he wasn’t sure where it was going now or who he was in it. He closed his eyes and listened to the music. 

Now they were singing an old carol that he remembered from his childhood. They had gone to the parish church when he and Mycroft were little. He always had the feeling it was something that Daddy had liked. They had never talked about religion or belief in his family. Church was just something one did, until at thirteen he had refused to keep up the charade. But his father was a traditionalist and his mother was a rationalist. Going to church had likely been more about daddy than mummy. 

Snatches of the song drifted in and out of his focus “...When sin departs before His grace then life and health come in its place… Angels and men with joy may sing…. All out of darkness we have light… Glory to God and peace to men….” There was no God, of course. No angels. But was it too much to hope for grace of a sort in his life? He had glimpsed what that might look like. The grace of love and connection. There had been so much darkness and pain and betrayal and death. “Now and forever more amen…..” 

~~~~~ 

She let him sleep on her sofa. It was chintz, flower-patterned, and feminine. They had talked late into the night, sitting beside a fire in her cottage. It was old and cozy, lots of wood paneling and old brick on floor and fireplace. He thought they could be friends. More than that? Did he want more than that? Did she? Time would tell. 

After breakfast the next morning, she took him out back to meet the bees. The hives were scattered up a long green slope of lawn. He counted twelve. 

“British Standard Double Brood Boxes.” 

“What?” 

“Type of hive. Common in Britain. Who’s been looking after them?” 

“Looking after? They’re bees. I just thought they did their thing and you collected the honey. Actually my next door neighbor has hives too. He collects the honey.” 

“For Christ’s sake, Janine…” his voice rose. 

She quirked an eyebrow at him. 

A bit not good. He was going to have to start editing his impatience. John would be pleased. “I’m sorry. It’s just that they do need care, especially in the winter. And you should get to know your own bees. Did you introduce yourself when you moved in?” 

“Introduce myself? Sherlock, are you daft?” 

“No. At least not about bees. They are very sensitive creatures. You’re fortunate that they didn’t leave. We need to check the hives. Do you have veils?” 

“There’s stuff over there.” She pointed to a neat white storage shed over to the right. Sherlock showed her how to put on the hat and veil and gloves, being sure the openings were sealed. She laughed at him in his bee-keeper hat. He just rolled his eyes and took her back to the hives. 

He stood in front of the nearest hive and spoke in a conversational tone. “I’m Sherlock,” he said. “I’m visiting. This is Janine. Say hello, Janine.” 

“Um…. Hello?” She felt like an idiot. She could hear a low subdued buzzing sound from within the first hive. 

“Go on, tell them.” Suddenly he smiled. “They’ll like you.” 

“Um… Ok. I’m sorry I haven’t introduced myself. Didn’t know the protocol.” She felt like a right prat, talking to bees. She looked at Sherlock. He nodded encouragingly. “But this is my land now, and I’m glad you’re here. I’m sorry I talked about getting rid of you. I hope you’ll stay.” She turned to Sherlock and mouthed, “Satisfied?” 

He nodded. “Now, we’re going to take a look inside." He put both hands lightly on the top of the hive and addressed the bees. "Sorry to disturb you. Just checking.” He lifted the top off the squarish contraption and revealed the first brood box. “Oh, good. Good. Very healthy. Lots of honey. See, they cluster together in the winter to keep the queen warm.” 

He pointed to her in the center. A mass of brown and gold striped bodies huddled together, wings fluttering. “That movement is how they keep the queen and themselves warm in the winter, but they have to have enough honey stored to eat to be able to keep moving. That’s what you have to check. If your neighbor had taken out too much of the honey, you’d have to supplement or they all would die.” 

“Oh,” she said. “Poor things. You said I was kind, but I could have been the death of them.” 

“You are kind,” Sherlock said. “At least you’ve been very kind to me. Do you mind….,” he lifted his arms. 

“Mind what?” 

“If I hug you?” The bee-keeper gear, coat, gloves, hat, mask, veil… made him feel that maybe this was a safe place to start. 

She laughed, moved in, and hugged him. Tight.


End file.
